Mudblood
by googleduckie
Summary: "The word echoed in her mind, repeating itself over and over again in the same low voice, a voice so quiet it was barely even a whisper, almost just a rustle of cloaks as someone rushed by. But she heard it." Hermione obsesses over a single word.


Disclaimer: I own nothing in this story. JKR and Warner Brothers and all those other big companies own all Harry Potter characters. I only obsess about them.  
  
  
  
"Mudblood." The word echoed in her mind, repeating itself over and over again in the same low voice, a voice so quiet it was barely even a whisper, almost just a rustle of cloaks as someone rushed by. But she heard it. And she knew she was meant to hear it. She could tell by the quiet smirk that flashed onto his face whenever she winced, hearing the words. She could tell by the way his eyes glittered maliciously as he saw her approaching, as he opened his mouth to curse her. She could tell by the way he paused, ever so slightly, so as not to attract any attention at all, after he spit out the word, waiting for the reaction he knew would come.  
  
The word began to obsess her; whenever there was silence, she would hear it. The turning of a book page screamed it at her. The cool night wind breezing by the open window whistled the word. The rhythm of the lake, gently splashing on the shore, beat out the word. The quiet breathing of a studying student seemed to repeat the words. A bird's pleasant chirping as the sun rose suddenly formed the dreaded word. She couldn't concentrate on anything without sensing the word coming at her from somewhere. She couldn't walk down the halls without reading the word in someone's gaze, couldn't speak to an acquaintance without hearing them mutter under their breath the cursed word. She couldn't blow out a candle but hear the smoke sighing the word as it faded into the air.  
  
"You're crazy," they told her. Her two best friends didn't understand. Not even the one who had heard voices hissing in the walls during his second year believed that the word was haunting her. They both dismissed it as an over-reaction. "Ignore him," they said. As if she could! As if she could ignore the word when it came hurtling towards her like a steam engine, screaming and taunting her with all it's might. As if she could ignore the word that had worked itself into her blood, coursing throughout her body, always echoing every thought she had. But both of them were wizards. And, more importantly, both of them had parents who were wizards. They weren't some fluke of genetics, they were full-fledged wizards. And no one could deny it. But her. she was just a freak of nature. No one knew what had happened to her, or any of the others like her. No one had any idea why they became witches and wizards, why they mysteriously had the powers. And, presumably, no one ever would. No one else she knew heard the word reverberating through their very being every moment of their life.  
  
It was driving her crazy. She couldn't get away from it. And, strangely, for some odd reason she couldn't even begin to fathom, she didn't want to. It was a reminder of something she didn't understand. Something no one understood. And it was something she could find out. She could discover why she was a witch. Prove that she was more than just some sort of weird mistake in a blob of DNA. By searching through books, by doing Muggle experiments, by exploring the very history and lineage of herself and other Muggle-borns. By never giving up until she finally understood why. She knew she could do it. She would do it. And become a famous witch. A famous witch of Muggle descendant. And that would prove everyone wrong. Especially the snob in the halls, the boy who had started this obsession, the boy who was the cause of all the problems, the boy whose voice seemed to be everywhere, surrounding her at all times.  
  
An owl hooted softly from a tree beyond the window, and she glanced outside. It was wishing her luck, she could sense it. The hoot, while still sounding peculiarly like the cursed word, seemed more optimistic. It wasn't a dry sound, but a cry which burst freely into the night, optimistically declaring that this witch would prevail, that this witch would not settle for anything less than being the best. She opened a thick tome of ancient spells and theories, the echoing word in her mind becoming quieter as she repeated her promise to find out what made her a witch. She picked up her quill and unrolled a fresh piece of parchment. She set the tip of the quill gently on the paper, ready to take notes. And as the pen scrawled across the page, she realized that, for the first time in what seemed like ages, it sounded like a normal quill scratching on paper. She smiled. The word would disappear. But the dream wouldn't. 


End file.
